


Lilacs Out Of Dead Land

by inkstiel (Theconsultingdetective)



Series: We Who Wander [1]
Category: Mad Max: Fury Road, Supernatural
Genre: Amputation, Canon-Typical Violence, DCBB 2015, Drug Use, F/M, Fire, Fury Road verse, Imperator!Dean, M/M, Marijuana, Minor Character Death, Name Changes, Other, Road Warrior!Cas, Storms, allusions to past sexual violence, genderqueer!Charlie, situations of peril, spoilers for Mad Max: Fury Road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theconsultingdetective/pseuds/inkstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Dean was a boy, he’s embraced his fate. Like Furiosa, his mentor, he is to become Imperator of the Green Place, an unlikely utopia in the massive wastes of the desert. With Furiosa’s passing, the mantle is handed down to Dean, whose entire youth had been spent preparing for that very moment. </p><p>The real trouble begins three years after Dean takes command. When the Boys, a strange breed of halflifes once used for war but now a workforce, capture a Road Warrior, he realizes they’ve finally stepped over the line. But before he can dispatch them, they revolt, launching a guerilla attack on Dean and his family and friends. The attack pushes them all out onto the legendary Fury Road, with the Boys and a cavalcade of scavengers hot on their trail. Along the way, Dean develops shaky alliances, close friendships, and most importantly, an abiding love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Green Place

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, readers! I hope you guys enjoy this Deancas Big Bang. I've split it into two parts, so be on the lookout for part two! Some quick thank yous: to my lovely [ beta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bountyhuntergirl/pseuds/bountyhuntergirl) and rp partner, who sat through all my roughest drafts (read her DCBB [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5011045/chapters/11516332); it's fantastic!) Additionally, thanks to my artist, [Bridget](http://introspectivewingtips.tumblr.com/). She really captured the world of the story, and all her art is beautiful. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are vastly appreciated.

"Imperator, please," Dean murmured, clinging to her bony hands. "I can't run the Green Place without you. We need you here." Furiosa shook her head weakly, smiling.

"You can, Dean. I know you can." She almost laughed, her body thin, frail after years of fighting for, guiding a whole community of once-desperate people. "Don't you trust your Imperator?" Dean sniffed and smiled.

"Of course I do," he agreed. "Always."

"Then trust me when I tell you that you can take over this mantle from me," she said, her voice fragile and cracking but firm and certain. She pulled open Dean's hand, clenched into a fist, and pressed a little white seed into his palm.

"Plant this for me," she told him, and Dean nodded as she curled his fingers back around it. "Up on the Green, right in the middle." Dean nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but his mother gently rested a hand on his shoulder and he yielded.

"Furiosa needs her rest, Dean," she said, gently and softly. "Others want to speak to her. Come on." Dean stood, reluctant, clutching the seed in his hand. Furiosa watched from her bed, her clear blue eyes following the boy's face.

"Thank you, Dag," she nodded to his mother, who smiled back with wet eyes. "And good luck to you, Dean. Our Imperator." He swallowed hard, his brows furrowed just barely, eyes up looking at the sunlight that filtered through the skylight overhead to keep from crying, solemn and silent. His mother guided him out, down the hall and to his own quarters, where the seamstresses waited to make the final alterations on his commencement outfit. Though Furiosa had been preparing him for this day since he could walk and talk, he didn't feel ready to take her place, and part of him thought he never would be.

~~

Dag adjusted the shoulders of her son's new leather jacket and smiled proudly.

"You're handsome," she said, smoothing down the front of his verdant green shirt, with the crest of the land he'd inherited hand-stitched onto it.

"Don't sound so surprised," he replied, mustering a little chuckle. "You're sure now's the right time? Doesn't it feel… I don't know, disrespectful, to you ?" She shook her head.

"Furiosa would understand. You've got to make sure the people know you're in charge. Waiting would leave time for another regime to start, that's what Charlemagne said." Dean nodded, sighing. Though his advisor was a year or two younger than him, he still took their opinions into account when he made decisions.

"I guess I should go, then," he said. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," she smiled, pulling him in for a hug. "Make us proud."

"No pressure," he laughed, walking out of the room, accompanied by a handful of Boys, bright green dye streaked across their foreheads where swipes of black had once been, when his father ruled.

"Alright," he muttered, checking on either side of himself, rolling his shoulders and straightening his jacket. "Boys?"

"Yes, Imperator?" one of them chirped, running forward. He recognised this one; an eager to please, skinny, younger Half-life called Garth.

"You know the drill. The rules now are just the same as the ones that existed when Furiosa was imperator. None of this Valhalla bull, no Witnessing. There’s gonna be trouble if you don’t listen to me here, capice?" There was some grumbling in the back, and Dean set his jaw, and took the tone Furiosa had taught him to use sparingly, but on occasion.

"If you’re gonna be uncooperative, you might as well speak now," he barked out, setting a hand flat on Garth's bony chest to stop the Boys from walking any further. "I'm not gonna tolerate any arguing.” The pale men parted to let him walk down the middle, his voice booming and rough. "I'll throw your ass into the salt flats the very second I hear that bastard's name." Dean narrowed his eyes at one of the Boys, who didn't seem to be paying a lot of attention.

"Hey," he snarled, grabbing him by his bony jaw. "You listening to me, huh? You don't look like you're paying a whole lot of attention."

"I'm not," he snapped. "You're not in charge here, 'Imperator,'" He spat in Dean’s face, holding his green eyes with his own grey ones. "You're both fakes, you and that bitch Furiosa. The Immortan Joe is our real leader! We don't have to obey you!" Dean shoved him back against the wall, forearm against his throat.

"Jonabet," he called, a woman with tight braids and aluminum shoulderpads running over. "Get rid of this one for me. Whatever parts of him you can reuse, do. Nothing's too low for him." Jonabet, Jo to her friends, nodded curtly, grabbing the Boy with both hands.

"Witness me!" he howled as she dragged him away. "Witness me! I am awaited in Val-" and with a knife plunged into his neck by an impatient Jo, he was silent. Dean could hear a pin drop in the hallway, the remaining Boys swallowing hard, silent.

"Now, I don't wanna hear that kind of shit again," he said. "You and me are gonna get along just fine if you take a lesson from your friend there." He looked around, giving Garth a reassuring half-smile. "Let's go," he said, and Garth nodded and managed a smile back, nodding obediently, following Dean.

~~

Dean cleared his throat, listening to the noises of the crowd down below as he approached the edge of the overlook. Charlemagne and Dag, along with his younger brother Sam, flanked him on either side, with the rest of his friends and advisors standing at the back. He stepped up to the microphone, tapping it, the feedback of his finger echoing all throughout the canyon where everyone was gathered.

"Today," he began, scanning the gathered masses, all clad in black and green. "I'd like to start by honouring Imperator Furiosa. She was a great leader, and if I can do even close to the job she did, I'll be proud. Her memory lives on with all of us." He raised a hand, then closed it and pulled it to his chest, over his heart, the crowd mimicking the motion. His eyes pricked with tears-he was lucky most of the people couldn't see. "I promise you all that you will be as much as a part of this leadership as you were a part of Furiosa's. The electoral system my teacher and guide established will continue, and my team and I will keep investigating new ways to find water and gasoline without getting into conflicts with surrounding groups. I, Imperator Dean, will listen to each and every one of you, and make it my duty to protect and provide for the citizens of the Green Place. Thank you."

"Long live Imperator Dean! Long live!" The people cheered, and he smiled, raising a hand in solidarity. The platform in the centre of the ground started rising, lifted by a rush of unpurified water, a huge clump of people climbing on so they could tour the main compound and attend Furiosa's burial. Dean went to greet them, only the first group of many, filled with a sense of melancholy as he considered both the glory and potential good he could do with his new position, and the cost at which it came. He only hoped he could do some good for the people he led. He only hoped he would survive that long.


	2. Blue Lips, Blue Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood, violence, and a near death experience.

**Three Years Later**

The Boys' quarters were, for the most part, quiet and dark. Dean didn't like it down there; it was anathema to the sun and noise he loved. But he was here for a reason. Garth, the little saint that he was, had slipped a warning to Charlemagne that the other Boys had an Organic down in their quarters. Dean, naturally, had been outraged. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to fall back into their old ways, especially what with his heritage. His father was Immortan Joe, after all, and he couldn't imagine letting what his home had become turn back into what it had once been.

"Boys!" Dean called. "Surprise inspection! Get to your rooms, chop chop!"

"Where's the Blondie?" one of the Boys asked, all of them filtering away from the big, cavernous room that used to be used for god knew what before Furiosa took over.

"Busy," Dean snapped. "C’mon, rooms, quick." He had to shove through the milling group of bodies to see a few of the Boys, who were huddled around some crumpled, pitiful figure lying on the rocky floor of the back hallway, a crimson puddle spreading around him. 

"Hey," he shouted, and his voice rang out in the passages. "Get back from him. Get back, go on." They grumbled and spat, turning on Dean with bared teeth and bitter threats. Only after Dean had used his knife to make an example of one of them did they clear out, back to their quarters as they’d been told. Dean crouched by the side of the crumpled figure, brows furrowed, and noticed in fury the IVs running from his arms, pumping blood out of his body and into the Boys. The man, his breathing wheezy and ragged, flinched away from Dean's hand as he reached for him.

"It's okay," he assured, voice quiet, gentle. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to help." He grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it taught so the shaking man could see his crest. "Look, look. I'm Dean. Imperator. In charge here." He paused. "Do you talk? English?" The man just looked up at him, frantic, eyes darting around anxiously, before batting lazily at Dean, stirring away.

"We'll get you to medical. Come here, lemme carry you." The man-who seemed younger than Dean had previously guessed-looked apprehensive.

"First," he insisted, tugging on the IVs. Dean nodded, removing the curved needles from his neck and arms.

"Okay. Come on, up." He scooped his arms around him, strong from being trained by Furiosa and the rest of the Vuvalini, and held him against his chest, realising more with every passing moment the boy’s sorry state. He was tan, dusty, every inch a Road Warrior like Max, the mythical man who'd travelled with Furiosa, who his mother had told him stories of. His eyes were glazed and cloudy, but the brightest blue, the same shade as the sky at night and beautiful, beautiful. Dean huffed, looking around at the Boys, who were hastily plucking the IVs from their arms, swatting each other and growling curses.

"When I get back," he said, "each and every one of you are getting through the ringer on this. And whoever's responsible, they ain't gonna see the light of tomorrow morning. Got that?"

"He's our Blood Bag!" one of them protested. "You can't take 'im, 'e's ours!"

"He's a person," Dean snapped. "Not a thing. He doesn't belong to anyone, least of all you." He shifted the stranger in his arms, storming down the hall, the Boys shouting angrily after him, even beginning to follow him with loping strides, ready to strike. He slammed the door shut behind him, locking it, making sure the Boys, who could get violent at the drop of a hat, couldn't follow, and hefted the stranger up into his arms, hands over the punctures where the IVs had been.

"Come on," Dean coaxed. "Talk to me, huh? Where'd you come from? What's your name?"

"Roa-Road Warrior," the man choked out, eyes threatening to roll back in his head, lids fluttering.

"Warrior, huh?" Dean asked, walking quickly down the hall towards the Medical Centre, dry red dirt on his left and right, making up the rough-hewn tunnels that composed their home. "Been a Warrior all your life?" The man just gave a pained whimper, arm over his eyes. "I know, it ain't fun. We're gonna get you all fixed up, promise."

He skidded into the Medical Centre, the well-lit, clean room bustling with the injured, the pregnant, the sick. He lay the stranger on one of the beds, blood starting to trickle through his fingers like he was holding back a dam on his own. Mills, the head doctor, came running over as soon as she spotted the new body in the room, not to mention the Imperator himself.

"What's the problem?" she asked, quickly getting to work.

"He's been bled. I need you to take care of him, I've got business to see to." She nodded.

"Careful down there," she said, knowingly. Dean nodded.

"Always am, Doc," he replied, unlocking the emergency weapons chest in the hallway and grabbing the sawed off he'd made himself, as a little kid.

~~

By the time the Boys were taken care of, he'd discharged all seven rounds in his shotgun, twice over. When he got like this, volatile and furious, if someone looked at him wrong, they could find themselves either wandering in the Salts or bleeding out on the hard ground. Furiosa would give him a pointed look when he used to get that way, and they both knew just what it meant-- _you can't be like him_. As Dean made his way from the Boys’ quarters, blood washed off of his hands, the door locked behind him, Charlemagne caught him by the elbow.

"Dean," they hissed. "Mills told me about what you did downstairs, to those Boys. You know you have to be careful with them."

"They weren't careful with that poor guy," Dean grumbled. "They put him so full of holes I coulda seen right through him."

"The more you trap them down there, and cull them, the more angry they're gonna get!" they pointed out. "At least bring Garth up, we need one of them on our team." Dean huffed.

"Send Jo down," he said, reluctant. "Where's Sam, by the way?"

"Garden tours," they replied. "Showing everyone around. You know him." Dean spared himself a nod and a little fond smile.

"The people's prince," he teased. "I'm gonna check on our victim. Make sure Jo brings Garth up." Charlemagne nodded, diverging from the hallway down which Dean walked, on his way back to the infirmary.

As he went, someone slammed bodily into his shoulder, a man in a dusty old jacket and tattered, dirty jeans.

~~

"Sorry," he mumbled over his shoulder, and Dean saw his eyes-- beautiful, and so blue. So familiar. 

"Wait," he said, catching him by the back of his jacket. "Stop. Aren't you the Warrior, from earlier?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man grumbled, his voice dark and gritty from years of thirst. Dean rolled his eyes.

"The guy who got taken by the Boys downstairs. Don't bullshit me; I recognize your eyes." Dean paused, his firmness vanishing, fumbling for a moment. "That's not what I mean, you just look… familiar." The stranger scoffed.

"I'm leaving," he said. "Flattery won't change that."

"I'm not flattering you; you're too weak to travel alone."

"I will not be alone, I have a whole troupe of others travelling with me. And you may be Imperator, but you are not in charge of me. I am a grown man, and a Warrior at that, I can handle myself." He turned on his heel, curtly, and walked off. Dean ran after him.

"I don't care that you're grown, or how many of your little pals you've got running around with you. You're just going to end up a feast for People Eaters out there, you and your whole posse, without the rest you need." The man whirled around to face him, eyes now clear, narrowed to slits.

"I'm not going to lounge around in your freaky compound," he snapped. "And I'm not going to join your freaky harem, and I'm not going to be part of your weird coterie--"

"You shut up," Dean snarled, grabbing the Warrior by the collar, angry at even the word 'harem'. "You don't know what you're talking about. I was gonna offer you water for your little group and your friends. But fuck, if you're gonna be such a princess about it--" He shoved him back, away from his hands. "Go. Run off, I don't wanna help you anyway. Little shit." Cas gave him a push, their feet clanging on the diamond plate that covered the floors of the hallways.

"Do not call me that," he bit back, stepping forward into Dean's space. "If you're so excited to get me on my way, just let me fucking go already." Dean raised his hands, looking daggers at the Warrior.

"Fine," he bit out. "Go on, then." The man nodded, terse, and walked off just as Ellin, one of Furiosa's closest friends, and now Dean's "handler," as Sam liked to put it, came walking through on the other side of Dean, leading a frustrated brownish-blond haired man with goggles up on his forehead and distinct lines of dirt and dust where they'd rested around his eyes. 

"Hey!" he shouted, and the dark haired Warrior turned.

"Gabriel," he greeted, seeming almost happy, walking over and clapping the other stranger on his shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo," he nodded, smacking his hand on the other man's back on the opposite side, in greeting, and offering him a pack that Dean supposed was his. "Did you talk to Fancypants?" Dean cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, Fancypants," the man called Gabriel smiled. "My brother and I need to talk to you."

"Talk to me, about what?" Dean repeated.

~~

"A sandstorm is on the way," Gabriel explained. "It's gonna be a big one. My brother here--" he pulled his brother closer by the shoulder, smirking, "-- and I need a place to hunker down. We're willing to give you six gallons of gasoline and twelve rounds of bullets, in exchange for some safety just till the storm's over." Dean paused.

"Ellin, get everyone inside. Shut up the overlook, make sure all the citizens are inside and safe," he said, firmly, standing in the middle of the small cluster in the hallway.

"Dean, just 'cause these two say there's a storm coming, don't mean they're right," Ellin asserted, looking straight at the pair. "They could be lyin' to get us all in one place. Whole lotta people after this spot, what we've got." Dean looked over at the strangers, all dusty and tanned by the sun, standing side by side.

"How 'bout it, Goggles?" he asked. "I'd hate to bring you two in here one second and have to give you the axe the next."

"We wouldn't come here if we didn't need your help," Gabriel insisted. "In fact, it was your Boys who made the first move-- plucked my brother here right off his bike. We're not the ones who are being aggressive here."

"Anyway," the dark haired one said, "you can probably see the storm on the horizon, if you'd care to pay attention." He took a telescope out of the pocket of his beaten pack and shoved it at Dean, who, looking at the duo apprehensively, stalked to the little window carved out of the mountainside and peered out, the old brushed copper spyglass up to his eye. Through the little circle he could see, rising from the sunbaked ground, a column, dark and spiralling furiously into the sky.

"They ain't kidding," he said, collapsing the telescope and returning to the huddle. "We gotta get everyone in, everything locked down. Quickly, come on." He turned to the two strangers. "You're comin' with me."

"What for?" Gabriel asked.

"Work," Dean replied.

"This wasn't part of the deal," the Warrior chimed in. "Bullets and gas for a place to stay. No labour."

"The deal changed," Dean snapped. "We're covering the Green, so it won't get damaged by the storm."

"I will not put myself and my brother at risk for a bunch of strangers--"

"It's that or I chuck you both into the eye of that cluster myself. Come on, this thing'll be on top of us before we know it at this rate." That got the Warrior’s attention; with a silent understanding, they walked quickly through the corridors and back halls of the compound, up the ladder to the Green.

~~

"We've gotta get the tarp over it!" Dean called over the rush of wind, standing in the little plexiglass room at the top of the stairs, the hatch shut behind him. He pulled on some old glasses, big oblong things that used to be called 'Aviators,' reflecting the harsh light they caught off their mirrored surface. Gabriel tugged town his goggles, cleaning them with a bit of his sleeve, and he and the other nomad pulled up bandanas around their nose and mouth, Dean doing the same with the hanging cowl of his shirt so he'd be protected from dust and sand. The nomad flipped the glasses on his head down to cover his eyes, the shape and style matching Dean’s, the finish a deep black. 

"Just tell us what we need to do," Gabriel replied, voice muffled by the fabric around his mouth. Dean nodded shortly and unlocked the door, the seal around it popping, the gust of the storm pushing it back and turning the small room into a vortex of sand and filth.

"Get the tarp!" he shouted, pointing at the far end of the garden area, the vast sea of green between them and their goal. "Bring it up; we gotta tie it down." Gabriel and the nomad both ran to it along the paths made by metal grates, where the thick plastic tarp was rolled up, bringing it forward toward Dean. 

"Tie it to what?" Gabriel yelled, his voice being blown away by the whipping wind and muffled by his bandana.

"The grommets," Dean replied, pointing at the lip of the raised platform, which was dotted with silvery rings. "Along the edge! Quick, come on!"

He climbed over the edge, standing on the dry red dirt, and got to work, using zip ties strung through the grommets to tie down the huge rippling tarp. The dark haired nomad, his eyes shielded by wraparound sunglasses, worked alongside Dean, the sandy dirt at the edge of the mound they all stood on blowing away right under their feet. The stranger's hands worked quickly, wearing gloves that left his calloused, split knuckles exposed.

Dean was so busy threading the zip tie through the grommet, through the tarp, pulling it down, threading, threading, pulling, that he didn't notice the wind change. The second he released the edge of the raised wall, the gust hit him in the chest with all the solidity of a body slamming into him, and he stumbled back, his boot slipping, the ground crumbling away under it, until a hand grabbed his flailing one, and it was the nomad, the leather of his gloves worn soft, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses. He yanked Dean upright, both of them clung to the wall for dear life.

"Thanks," Dean shouted, breathless, hanging on for dear life to the side of the garden platform as he regained his footing, trembling. "I didn't catch your name." The nomad didn't speak, the only sound the deafening roar of the wind.

"This part's done," Gabriel called from the other side of the covered expanse, the plants-vegetables, vines that crawled along the ground, Furiosa's blooming deep purple flower-safe and sound, or so Dean hoped.

"Almost there," Dean agreed. "Watch where you step on your way in!" Gabriel nodded, climbing back onto the raised platform, feeling his way in front of him to make sure he didn't crush any plants, crawling down on his belly so the wind didn't whip him away. Dean himself had seen that happen to plenty of people, and good people, at that. He pulled shut the last tie, then knitted his fingers.

"Put your foot up!" he shouted to the Warrior, who nodded and boosted himself back onto the platform, offering a hand to Dean, which he took quickly, dragging himself up, the two of them making their way inside, Dean leading since he knew where to crawl and where not to. They finally got inside, the sun reddening the backs of their necks already, yanking the door shut in the clear glass room. The vortex in the room died instantly, like flicking a switch, as soon as the seal caught, each of the three men slumped against a wall and panting. 

"Let's get the hell inside," Gabriel huffed. "Come on." He unlocked the hatch and slipped down, descending the ladder, the other Warrior following, Dean the last to go. The storm swallowed the outskirts of the Green Place, swirling around him, shaking the walls. He couldn't tear his eyes away-he was mesmerised by the whirlpool of dirt and stone and dust, ash caught up in the wind. Among the dirt he could see bits of people's homes, caught up in the air, cups and blankets and little stuffed dolls, and it reminded him of--

~~

"Hey!" Charlemagne shouted up, staring incredulously. "You got sunstroke, or what? Get down here!" Dean slid down, with a last look to his land, locking the hatch behind him and taking off his gear, sliding the cowl from his face, removing his sunglasses and setting them on the top of his head. He shucked off his leather jacket, as well, the same one he wore on his coronation day, and to his mother Dag's funeral just three months ago, dusting the dust and grit off of it, gently, tenderly, the beaten garment the last reminder of his mother and his mentor. The loss still stung, but he didn't give himself time to consider it. He couldn't bear it.

"Jo brought Garth up," Charlemagne said, walking beside Dean as he went on his way to the dining room. "You're going to want to talk to her. She's just this side of paranoid over the whole thing."

"The whole thing?”

"The Boys. They got aggressive with Jo, with Garth too. I don't like it, Dean. It didn't bother me before, but this is… too close to home." They twisted their leather cuff bracelet, given to them by Jo herself, and Dean knew what that meant. Resolute, he set his jaw.

"We should just get rid of them," he insisted. "All of 'em. They're nothing but fucking trouble." Charlemagne huffed.

"Then who will we use as our army? We've got to have something, just in case of trouble."

"We can draft," Dean shrugged, walking on his way to the Mess Hall, the pair of Warriors following, mumbling to each other. "We've got an entire nation of civilians."

"Who are too weak to fight," they shot back.

"Well, it's just a matter of time before the Boys turn against us," Dean said.

"You're suggesting a genocide, Dean--"

"I do what I have to for the good of my people," he snapped. "If I sit on my hands, who knows where we'll end up?" He hung his jacket on one of the many hooks dotted on the wall, and turned to them, the nomad duo almost running straight into her back.

"Unless you've got an alternative locked and loaded, there's no way around this for us. I don't like the idea of a genocide any more than you do, but if it's what we have to do." He paused, then added, "Jo'll be safer that way." Charlemagne crossed their arms.

"Talk to her first," they insisted. "Maybe she'll have some ideas."

"Hell, I guess," Dean sighed. "But they're gonna backfire on us, just wait, Char."

~~

He sat down at the long metal table, flanked, as usual, by his kid brother, Sam, and Jo, with Charlemagne never far away. Across from him were the two nomads, Gabriel and the dark haired, blue eyed one whose name Dean still didn't know. The latter, who he just called Warrior, was stuffing his face with bread and fruit and crows meat, chugging down water in between bites. Dean chuckled, hardly able to blame him, what with how hungry and thirsty he must've been. He swiped the water running down his chin away with his wrist, catching Dean's eye, giving him a _what?_ glare. Dean rolled his eyes, looking away, but his mind lingered on the Warrior's pointed look, his eyes flashing bright and blue against his tanned skin.

"Dean, we need to talk," Jo said, interrupting his thoughts. "The Boys are getting pissy. They're more and more aggressive, every day. We've gotta take care of 'em, one way or another."

"That's what I told Char," Dean agreed, "but they don't want to. They say it'd be a genocide."

"If we let them stew down there, Dean, we're gonna be the ones on the receiving end of that genocide. It's just a matter of time before they start making Chrome, and once they get that, stopping them's gonna be close to impossible." Dean huffed, pushing his food around on his plate with his hunk of bread, his appetite dying away.

"Furiosa thought we could just let this batch die out," he told her, pointedly. "She said--"

"Things have changed since then, Dean," Jo replied, a little softness to her voice, recognising their late, beloved leader. "You can't just cling to the past. We can't do things the old way forever. Now, look. We can send them on a run to the Bullet Farm or someplace, then we can follow after them, take 'em out like that. Minimises risk to the civilians, takes care of the problem, easy." Dean nodded. "But we keep Garth here," she added. "He's a decent guy. Kind of a… weirdo, but decent enough." Dean nodded again, distracted, gnawing on the bread, eyes darting indiscreetly to the Warrior across from him.

"Hey," Gabriel said, and Dean prayed he hadn't caught the unabashed staring he was doing at his partner, eyes shifting to look at him. "You still want those bullets and that gas, or what?"

"Oh, yeah. Thanks."

"It's fine. We've got more than we need for the two of us, anyway." Dean stopped.

"The two of us, you said?"

"Yeah. It's just me and my kid brother, here." He tousled the Warrior's dark hair, the man nudging him pointedly, but harmlessly, in the ribs with what looked like a very sharp elbow.

"He said he had a whole troupe travelling with him," Dean said, warily.

"I did," the Warrior agreed. "They were wiped out while I was here." Dean quieted.

"Musta happened quick," he said. "I'm sorry. What, uh, what took 'em?"

"Yes, things do, out here," the Warrior agreed, but his voice didn't change, didn't even crack, steady and stable, a tactic Dean knew too well. "It was sand raiders." He sipped his water, set down the glass a little more strongly than he'd meant to. "They'd been following us for a while, stalking us from the Bog all the way back here."

"That's awful," Sam chipped in, just now looking up from his writings. Dean had done everything he could to keep him from the harsh realities of the world, from getting too involved in the decisions he had to make, the difficult calls. "We lost our mother three months ago next week, to golden fever." Surprisingly, the Warrior regarded him with sympathy.

"Losing a loved one can be trying," he agreed. "May your mother rest in peace." Sam nodded, looking down, dragging a bit of crow around on his plate with his fork.

"Thanks," he nodded, painfully earnest, painfully innocent. "Same to you. They might still be alive, you know, sand raiders don't always--"

"No," Gabriel interrupted. "I saw it. They're gone." He didn't look up from his plate, spearing a piece of crow with a sharp clatter, the precision in the movement giving Dean a good idea of how the sand raider attack had gone. The Warrior raised his head and looked out the windows across from the table.

"Storm's over," he noted. "Pack up your food." Gabriel nodded, rising and scooping what was left of his food into a cloth like the one he wore around his neck, tying it up and putting it back in his pack.

"Wait," Dean said, standing, raising a hand. "If you're going further west, you're gonna be following the storm. You'll just get whipped back up into it."

"I know what I'm doing," the Warrior said, exasperated.

"Well, forgive me, but I don't understand what makes you so antsy to get out of here," Dean replied. "We got shelter. Water. Food enough for the two of you."

"You're so keen on us staying. Why?" the Warrior asked, cocking his head.

"I don't want you dead,” Dean snapped cooly. “We could strike a deal, you can work on the Green Place in exchange for a spot to hole up."

"We're fine on the road," the Warrior dismissed. "Gabriel. Come on." The other nomad gave Dean a shrug and a bit of an apologetic look. "Come on," he insisted, but Gabriel lingered.

"We should stay the night," he said finally. "We got no reason to dine and dash like this. Minimal risk, maximum reward, if we stick around." Dean opened his arms.

"It's true," he agreed. "Jonabet here's my Head of Defence, she can vouch that this place is incredibly fortified." Jo smiled proudly, giving a nod to the nomads.

"Haven't had an outsider get through in seven years."

"It's not outsiders I'm worried about," the warrior snapped. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"You think me and my people would hurt you?" he challenged, getting more than a little hot under the collar at the accusation.

"Guys, hey," Gabriel interrupted. "Cool it, come on. We all wanna stay alive, let's just be civil about this."

"Gabriel, I do not want to stay here," the Warrior persisted. "We aren't here by choice. We're here because his goons--" he pointed at Dean, "-- yanked me off my bike while I was waiting for your dumb ass to come back from a refuel! If they hadn't done that--"

"You'd be dead," Ellin interrupted, from the far end of the table. "You'd've been whipped up into that storm and smashed against a rock, the both of you." Dean opened his mouth to speak, but she jumped right in again. "You're not much better, Dean, having yourself a little schlangar-measuring contest just to boost your ego. Now, look. The nomads stay the night. In the morning, they go. You never see each other again. Fair enough?"

Dean nodded, retaking his seat. There were just a few people who he'd listen to and obey, unfailingly—Furiosa, Ellin, and the Wives. They had been kicking ass and taking names since before he was even born, Furiosa and the Wives ruling the road and Ellin keeping things ship-shape at the Citadel, during the power vacuum between the end of Joe's rule and the beginning of the new regime. 

The Warrior, however, did not calm down willingly. In fact, his brother had to practically yank him back into his seat with a sharp shove to the shoulder. But once he was down, he was quiet, until their plates were all cleaned and washed by hand and set up to dry.

Of course, now, it was dark, the beautiful blue of the sky flooding Dean's view as he looked out the window. The civilians were all in their quarters, little caverns dug out of the side of the mountain with claw trucks so the people could be safe from storms and get shelter from the burning sun, and Sam had already turned in for the night after removing the tarp from the Green with the help of Garth, who was always happy to lend a hand, and Capable, the oldest of the remaining Wives, and primary tender of the garden now that Dag had passed on. Charlemagne had disappeared with Jo a while ago, probably to their quarters for some quality time, and Ellin was most likely talking to Bobby, her husband, over in the war room. Apart from the Boys, which would take more time and resources than Dean felt like considering at the moment, there was one more loose end to tie up-- the nomads.

~~

"You can bunk with the citizens," he said, pushing in the chairs around the long table, "down in the mountainside, or you can bunk up here."

"We'll bunk here," the Warrior replied, curt, almost as though he thought he was in charge. "We can lay our bedrolls in the hall." Dean shook his head.

"You'd be safer in a room. Come on. You can stay with me." The Warrior's blue eyes turned to apprehensive slits.

"And how do we know you wouldn't try anything?"

"Think about it, kiddo" Gabriel cut in. "If you were him, living up here with your family and friends, and two strangers came around, wouldn't you wanna keep them with you so you could make sure they didn't hurt any of your people?" The Warrior huffed.

"We get privacy," he said, not even insisting, just stating it as if it were fact. "And we leave at daybreak. No escorts, and no one following." Dean nodded.

"Reasonable," he agreed. "Ellin will be up by then, she'll walk you out." Gabriel nodded.

"Thanks for your hospitality… Dean, right?"

"Imperator."

"Right. Imperator." Dean detected just a little sarcasm in his voice, but he didn't force the issue; he knew he'd be the same way if the tables were turned. He crossed his arms, huffing.

"I'm staying up in the conference room, just down the hall," he said. "Talking to my advisors. You can, uh, hang around up here, or you can go on to bed. It's right down the hall, then left. The seal's on the door." He tapped the table where the seal was stenciled, a ring of fire around a star that looked like some old sigil. "Looks like this."

"What does it mean?" Gabriel asked. Dean smiled sentimentally.

"'The fire of our souls, and the stars that guide us.'" He cleared his throat, letting the softness go from his eyes. "My mom and the old Imperator, they came up with it." The Warrior nodded.

"It's a beautiful sentiment," he agreed, and it was probably the most positive thing he'd heard Dean say in their whole time of knowing each other.

"Yeah," Gabriel nodded. "Uh, Bossman, have you got someplace where I could sit down for a little?" Dean hummed.

"Sure." He beckoned them to follow. "You hurt or som'm?" Gabriel chuckled a little.

"Sort of," he shrugged, with a teasing, secret smile between he and his brother.

"Sort of?"

"You'll catch on, soon enough," he dismissed. Dean rolled his eyes-- stupid nomads, always so hush-hush and private. Schlangar brains.

"Bedroom's down here," he said simply, pointing at the door. "There's a little closed off room where you two can get some privacy."

"Mhm," Gabriel smirked, walking down the hall towards the door, turning around to give Dean a look. "Bet that's where your lovely Breeder ladies like to spend their off-time, while they're not busy throwing themselves at you like some indulgent hedonistic fantas-"

And then Dean punched him in the face.

~~

"What the fuck?" the Warrior shouted, shoving Dean's chest. "What was that for?"

"I don't have a harem," Dean snapped. "Or Breeders or whatever the hell your idiot brother said. It's just me."

"Jesus Christ," Gabriel huffed, touching his fingers to his bloody nose. "You don't have to hit people just 'cause you're lonely, you moron." He bowed his head forward, staunching his bloody nose with a strip of cloth from his deep pockets. "Good punch, though."

"Whatever," Dean snapped. "Don't assume stuff you don't know jack shit about, huh?"

"Okay, fine," Gabriel grumbled. "Cmon." He tugged his brother by the arm. "Sooner we go to bed, sooner we can hit the road." They both shot Dean a glare, then turned to go back to bed, Dean watching them with an irritated noise. He crossed his arms tightly, turning to join Ellin and Bobby in the war room.

~~

"The Guzzlers'd be stupid not to," Bobby said, standing in front of the overlook, the curtain of which had been pulled shut and the large door pulled down. "We got crops, they don't. They got gasoline, we don't." Dean pushed his chair back from the table, leaning it back on two feet, Ellin swatting him on the arm.

"Boy, that chair has four feet for a reason," she chided.

"Yeah, sorry," Dean muttered, obeying grudgingly. "They'll ask for protection. Some sort of pact agreement, 'n we're already too busy protecting ourselves and the Outlying Lands to enter a venture like that with them." He tapped his finger on the table, in thought. "I mean, Charlemagne mentioned that new fuel she n’ Sammy n’ Toast've been lookin' into--"

"We ain't tested that yet," Ellin said, shaking her head. "And it'd be stupid to try it, seein' as we only got so many cars."

"I heard it worked in the World Before," he shrugged. "It says so in one of the books. Ethanol, from corn. They called them bio--" There was silence for a moment, like the quiet before a storm, and then, from the hallway, just feet away, there was a thud, and feral shouts and screams. Dean stood, immediately, ears almost pricking as he heard the noises.

"Dean, I told you those goddamn Road Warriors were nothin' but a fat lotta trouble." Dean couldn't hear her, already running into the hallway where the source of the commotion was, taking his trusty long knife out of his boot where he stored it as Bobby and Ellin readied their weapons.

~~

Awaiting him in the long hallway was, to his horror, a huge flood of Boys, with black smeared across their brows, rushing like an aimless wave. One of them ran at him, not hesitating in the slightest, screaming something about being awaited, riding immortal, but Dean managed to slice across his powdery white throat, black-red blood running down the hand he used to hold him still. The hall was filled with noise and bodies, Dean's action letting loose a flood of aggression and violence, an unfortunate few Organics mixed in among the raging Boys. They were mostly unarmed, but their blind rage, their kamikaze nature, let them do more damage with their hands and bodies than with any weapon. One of them reached a hand up towards Dean's face, making to pluck out his eye, but before he could so much as touch him, he fell dead, and not by Dean's knife, either. There was a thin blade in his back, flung by someone who obviously knew what they were doing-

"Jo!" he called, knowing his friend's handiwork at a glance.

"Dean!" she called back, parroted by Sam and Charlemagne. "Dean, over here!" He saw a bloodied hand raised over the crowd, and could only hope that blood was someone else's.

"Alright," Dean called, "I'm coming. Just stay there!" He hacked and slashed his way through the Boys, in a blind fury, his knife soaked in dark red blood, blood that looked like it had already been aged. They came at him not in waves, but instead all at once, like an angry stampede. Dean responded in kind, a one man army that sliced and jabbed at anything between he and his friends. He hooked his arms under the shoulders of one Boy, holding him chest to back, letting him take all the scratches and cuts while he remained unharmed, until he took a knife to the chest and fell useless at Dean’s feet. Just as one of the hundreds of identical attackers raised his knife to plunge it into Dean, a hand whizzed past his shoulder, hurling a long knife right by his ear and into the chest of the young Imperator’s would-be murderer. 

Dean grabbed the man behind him by the shirt, hauling him over, knife at the ready, poised at his throat, until his eyes focused enough to register the face.

"This is how you treat all your guests?" the man he was holding shouted over the din of cries and voices. The Warrior. Of fucking course. He wrestled free, sinking his knives, little obelisk-shaped things, one in each hand, into the chest of an oncoming Boy. He snatched up the knife he’d thrown as he fought through the crowd, one of the blades always stored up his sleeve. 

"This wasn't part'a the plan, there, princess!" Dean yelled back. "I don't think that far ahead."

"I didn't figure," the Warrior snapped. "Presumably you have a plan, though? Now?" Dean nodded.

"Involves you," he replied, "goin'. Soon as we can get to an exit." He sliced one of the Boys open down his sternum, shoving him aside, the rest of the oncoming horde climbing over him to get to their prizes-- Dean and the Warrior, the false Imperator and their Blood Bag.

"Wouldn't argue there," the Warrior agreed. Now Dean could see Charlemagne and Jo as they defended their little corner, Jo with her assortment of hand knives, Charlemagne with their crossbow, Sam holding his own with a pistol.

"Soon as we can, we get up to the roof. There's a way down from there," Dean hissed to the Warrior, so the Boys wouldn't catch on. "Where's your brother?"

"Safe," the Warrior answered, with no further explanation. Dean nodded.

"'S what matters," he agreed, before diving back into the breach. The Warrior was a great fighter, equal to, if not better than, Dean. The knives he used, like nothing Dean had ever seen, darted from victim to victim in little silver and crimson flashes, looking more like streaks of light than solid objects. They moved almost as quickly as the bolts from Charlemagne's bow, and with the same agility, the same precision. Dean wasn't that fast, but he was as strong, and he didn't need weapons. All he needed was his bare hands and a reason to fight.

By the time Dean and the Warrior made it to the door up to the roof, Charlemagne, Sam, and Jo in tow, the ground was so carpeted with bodies of the Boys and a few unlucky Organics that one could hardly see the metal plates that comprised the floor. The door to the Boys' quarters had been locked in the scramble, and everyone but the six of them dead, but Dean knew it couldn't have been that easy. There were always more Boys-it seemed as though they made and remade themselves.

"We get out onto the roof," he instructed firmly, "and then to the garage. Char, you, me, and Jo are gonna take the Rig out and draw the Boys away from here. We can take care of them out in the Salts, minimise collateral."  
  


"Ellin and Bobby know the score, huh?" Jo asked, making her way up the ladder, herself at the front with Charlemagne and Dean at the back. Dean nodded.

"Ellin's in charge if I ain't around," he replied. "She knows what to do, better than I do, probably."

"Reassuring," the Warrior grumbled. "We're going. Soon as we can."

“Wait,” Sam argued. “How about me?”

“You stay here,” Dean said. “Where it’s safe.”

“Safe is relative,” Sam huffed. “I feel safest when I’m with you.” 

“Sammy, I’m flattered, but you ain’t gonna be safe truckin’ in around the wasteland with the others and I.”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Sam huffed. “Dean, I’m eighteen. You were just fourteen when you went on your first run, why can’t I—“

"Fine," Dean snapped. "We got a limited window before the second wave comes around, we gotta load up in the cars quick." He hustled his little ragtag group up the ladder and onto the Green, leaving behind them a scene of brutal carnage. 

When they arrived upstairs, the Green was on display, the tarp stowed away as usual. Surrounded by vibrant green vegetables, standing out against the dark indigo sky, was a massive flower, the name of which Dean didn’t know, towering above the low plants around it. It was so purple it was almost black, and whisker-like appendages blossomed from the centre—this was Furiosa’s flower, resilient and strong, planted in the honour of the deceased leader. Any other day, Dean would wander through the garden, enjoying the beauty and the peace it sometimes afforded him. Today, though, he was yanked from his distractions by The Warrior’s voice. 

“Hey!” he snapped, from the ladder that led down the side of the mountain on which the Green was perched. Dean turned, looking to him. 

“Coming,” he nodded, running over, climbing quickly down the ladder. As he descended, he caught a glimpse of the Boys clambering at the door, slamming their fists against it, smudging the glass with blood and grease and dirt, and couldn’t help but fear for the plants. 

“Hurry it up, Princess!” Jo rushed, from the landing that led into the garage, where Dean’s fleet of cars was tucked away. 

“I’m coming,” Dean assured, but at the last moment, his foot recoiled from the last rung and he bolted back up to the garden, to the blossoming flower in it’s centre. The Boys got even louder when they saw him, banging on the door and screaming, their fists slamming against the glass, their voices rising. 

Quickly, Dean dropped beside the plant, and dug in the dirt till he reached the roots, finding the longest portion, the little white tendrils reaching like fingers into the dirt. Carefully, he pulled off a handful, snapping off a bit of the stem that was buried in the rich dirt. Just as the clear door broke, the Boys pouring out like so much water through a narrow spout, rushing towards Dean, he was up, and running for the ladder. They made to follow, steps behind Dean as he hastily climbed down, blood thudding in his ears. He was still holding on as a few of the Boys climbed onto the ladder after him, knowing that if he let the rope structure remain, he'd be putting his friends, who were waiting below him, coaxing him on, at risk. 

Without a thought to himself, he got his short serrated knife from the scabbard around his hips, sawing quickly through the rope, his pursuers mere steps behind him. He couldn't move quickly enough; soon, the first rope snapped, but he still had to make it through the second, hanging only by a length that frayed under his weight. He shifted from side to side as he cut through it, helping the process along, the rope splitting audibly until finally, it was cut, and he plummeted towards the hard rock landing, only able to see the night sky overhead, vivid with blue and violet in the beautiful darkness of late night. He could already hear his body cracking on the rock below him, dreading the sound it would make, until he felt himself buoyed by hands at his back, the hands of the others waiting at the landing, Sam and Charlemagne and Jo and the two strange Road Warriors. 

“Christ, Dean, what have you been eating?” Gabriel complained, letting Dean down to find his feet and catch his breath.

“Gabriel, I don’t know if now is the time for fat jokes,” the Warrior snapped, whipping out a pistol and picking off a Boy who leapt down to them. He was dead before hit the ground. “We need to go.” 

“C’mon, this way,” Charlemagne said, beckoning them along as the Boys jeered and jumped from over their heads, Sam and Charlemagne snapping them as the suicidal few of them fell. Every time, they were dead as soon as their feet left the ground. 

Hastily, the six made their way down the rock structure that served as a haphazard stairway, helping each other down. Charlemagne and Jo led the way, weapons drawn, finally getting to ground level, dust jumping around their boots as they climbed from the huge boulders to the sandy dirt. 

“Garage is this way,” Charlemagne said, gesturing with their bow. “Where did you two put your cars?” 

“They’re parked,” the Warrior replied. “Somewhere around here."

“Let’s hope they’re still there,” Dean grumbled, eager to get rid of the duo. Though they’d done them nothing but good, he was just waiting for him to turn on him. 

"Dean," Sam said, hurrying to catch up with his brother, who was currently at the head of their small posse. "Dean, hang on. What exactly is the plan here?" 

"Easy," Dean replied curtly. "We lead the Boys out into the desert, either get 'em so lost they won't make it back or off 'em if we have to." Sam looked conflicted, lips pulled into a tight line, eyebrows furrowed behind the sunglasses he'd pulled on. 

"They tried to kill us, Sam," he reminded him easily. "We passed the mercy option a hell of a long time ago. I'd rather us be alive than good, and you can't do both out here." Sam huffed, looking briefly up at the Green, where the Boys were funnelling inside like ants to a dropped crumb, then nodded. 

"We gonna take the Rig?" Dean smiled a little. 

"You bet your ass," he agreed, then raised his voice: "C'mon, folks, let's hustle. Don't wanna get cornered out there." 


	3. Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way.   
> For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way."
> 
> -"Ramble On," Led Zeppelin

**16 years ago**

Dean furrowed his eyebrows against the wash of glaring light that baked the desert sands, watching his mentors move skillfully and easily around the old car. Freckles had started to rise on his skin, on account of his hours spent in the hot sun. 

"It's real bright out here," he complained, plopping down on a spare tire that had been rolled aside. Dag set down her wrench and approached her son, kneeling to be eye level with the young boy.

"Here, Dean," she smiled, and slipped a pair of tinted goggles over his head. "Come here and help us work, _kiper_. It's time you learned to change a tire." 

"Mama-" 

"Listen to your mother," Furiosa cut in, slipping out on a creeper from under the car. "A good imperator gets their hands dirty, hm?" He sighed. 

"Yes, Furiosa," he agreed, and slipped off the tire. "Will I drive this someday?" he asked, cocking his head a little. Furiosa crossed her arms, and smiled, just barely. 

"If you put the work in." 

"What'll we call 'er?" Cheedo asked, dusting off the fresh windscreen she'd just added. 

"Cars don't have names, Chee," Toast replied. "But if they did, we'd call her Sappho." 

"How come?" Dean laughed, "that's a goofy name." 

"Dean," Dag chided. "It doesn't make a difference if she won't run, anyway." 

"She'll run," Furiosa insisted. "And we'll call her the Rig." 

**Present**

The Rig, as Dean and his compatriots knew her, was a thing of dusty beauty. The shiny finish of the car used as the cab—a nineteen-sixty-something Chevrolet Impala, it had been discovered after much poking around—was long since damaged by grains of sand and small stones hitting the vehicle. The windows, despite the frequent drives across the desert the old girl had done, were intact (they had to be in case a storm whipped up). From there, it was joined to a small, round fuel pod, known as 'The Bomb' because of its shape, and then to an empty guzzoline hauler, used half for passengers and goods and half for the coveted liquid it was intended originally to haul. The whole thing was built for a fight; spikes on the wheels prevented cars from getting too close, a metal wedge that could be raised and lowered at will kicked up dust to obscure the Rig itself from view, even the sides were covered mostly with spines, to keep people from climbing up unwanted. Like a cherry on top, the roof of an old car was used as a cover at the far back of the Rig, the perfect place for a sniper or lookout to hunker down. She was a thing of exquisite, practical beauty. 

"We don't have all day," Dean coaxed, hustling everyone into the hulking vehicle, the two Road Warriors having found their bikes and climbed aboard, starting them with a roar. He opened up the driver's side door, looking over his shoulder at the duo where they sat in a cloud of their own dust, goggles over their eyes. They each gave a little wave, and Gabriel shouted through the bandana over his mouth, “Thanks for the chow!” 

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Dean shouted back. 

“Watch out for storms,” Sam added. “Be safe.” They nodded curtly, roaring off into the setting sun on their bikes. Dean sighed, the pair vanishing just as instantaneously and strangely as they'd arrived.

~~

“Good to see them go," he muttered. "Come on, let's get going, we need-" 

"Dean?" Charlemagne called from the sniper's perch. "Come up here, I've got something you'll wanna see." Dean furrowed his brows, climbing up to investigate. 

"Whatcha got?" 

"See for yourself." He walked over along the flat top of the cargo portion of the Rig to discover a man-more specifically, an unarmed Boy, with huge protruding ears and a little upturned nose. 

"Garth?" he asked. The Boy nodded, climbing out to stand face to face with Dean. 

"I was just here working on the cars," he explained, sheepishly. "I wanted to make sure everything was in tip top shape, for your trade runs tomorrow...but then the revolt happened, and I knew you'd need to leave. So..." Dean raised a hand. 

"Just tell me if the Rig is ready to go," he said simply, looking at him. Garth nodded. 

"All gassed up and everything," he agreed. Dean sighed, looking around. 

"Great." He looked to his group of compatriots. "Let's load up, huh?" 

"Wait," Garth said, following Dean as he strode across the top of the rig. "I want to come with you." Dean raised his eyebrows, not turning to look at him. 

"What for?" 

"I want to help you," he insisted. "I can work on the Rig for you; I was trained as a blackthumb, Capable taught me herself…” 

"I can work on the Rig just fine." 

"But..." 

"It's dangerous," Dean added, looking over his shoulder. The spark in Garth's eyes was unmistakable. 

"I know." Dean huffed. 

"If you pull any adrenaline junkie bullshit-" 

"I won't," he assured, beaming at him like a little kid. "I'll sit up in the sniper's nest with Charlemagne, and I won't make a sound. Swear." Dean crossed his arms, fixing the Boy with a look. He just hopped up and down slightly on his gnarly pale feet, eager. 

"Go, then, go on. Listen to Char, don't you do anything stupid." He looked down at the others. "That goes for you, too. Sam, Jo, you're in the cab with me. Charlemagne, Garth'll be riding with you. If he gets out of line—“ 

"Which I won't—“ 

"If he does, you tell me, immediately." Charlemagne nodded, smiling with the same slightly nervous eagerness they always had before they left. Sam and Jo climbed into the cab, awaiting Dean's arrival. He swung easily from the top of the Rig to the driver's seat, punching in the sequence of buttons and levers that were necessary to get the Rig going-red switch, red switch, black toggle, brown button, red switch, and then the gear shift. 

"Alright," he smirked, adjusting all his mirrors, blaring the horn before throwing the car into reverse and roaring out of the garage with an explosion of sand and sound. "Jo, let's have some flares, get their attention." Jo nodded, grabbing the flare gun from under the floorboard and firing it into the air. They could all hear the Boys who remained up on the Green, howling and shouting and pointing. The Rig growled, her engine a furious noise under the hood of the car, the exhaust pipes at the front of the storage rig itself pouring dark smoke into the air. There were already cars of Boys dispatched to follow-Pole Cats, Flamers, any and every kind of vehicle following after them. 

"Where are we going?" Sam asked Dean, keeping a lookout behind them. 

"We're gonna take 'em under the pass," he said, voice raised over the engine noise he was practically deaf to by then. "All the way out to the Mountains, past the salts, past the Bog. We corner them in the valley, get up to the ridge, take care of them like fish in a barrel." 

"We got enough time for that?" Jo asked, leaning up. 

"Nothin' but," Dean concurred. Checking his mirrors, he noted a massive cloud of dust off to his left-it wasn't the Boys, so...

"Gastown," he heard Charlemagne shout through their bullhorn. "On the left." Dean tugged on the horn to indicate he understood her message. 

"They don't even have a dog in this fight," Sam said, concern on his face. "What are they doing out here? Trade?" 

"Maybe," Dean agreed. "We're gonna find out." He turned on the speakers that sat on the back of the Rig on, speaking into the little microphone. _"Gastown riders-this is a war convoy from The Green Place. We have nothing with you; turn around now or we'll be forced to fire."_ Rather than give any indication of a desire to turn back, Gastown’s riders poured on the gas, moving even more quickly. 

"What the fuck?" Dean grumbled, turning to look at the cloud of dust that rolled toward them. 

"Beats me," Jo said with a shake of her head. "All I can think is they want the Green Place." 

"You think they and the Boys had a thing goin'?" he asked, more than a little incredulous. 

"They're smart enough for it," Sam shrugged. "At least, one of them is. That one with the big slice all around his mouth, he'd put two and two together, I told you it was a bad idea to let them run the drops alone, I offered-" 

"Sammy," Dean interrupted curtly. "I know, you offered to go with them. But I don't think a kid with a forty-five would've changed any minds.”

“Dean, I’m not a kid, I’m eighteen, and frankly-”

“Boys, now’s not the time,” Jo snapped. “We’ve got two different war parties following us right now, and just a hair of a headstart." 

"We gotta fire on 'em," Dean said. "Focus on Gastown first. When the Boys see 'em go down, I reckon it'll give them second thoughts." Jo nodded, grabbing a gun from the arms built into the headliner of the car and firing on the Boys behind them. Char and Garth seemed to take the hint, gunfire sounding behind them, bullets ricocheting off the Rig's metal plating.

"Pole Cats catching up," Sam warned, checking in the mirrors, loading weapons and sorting bullets to pass back to Jo. 

"Awesome," Dean grinned. "Those guy's're easy." Sure enough, flanking them on either side were two cars, long and thin poles extending from their backs, Boys sitting on the ends of the poles ready to wreak havoc on Dean and his efforts. Dean cut the corners, whipping the spike-covered rig around to knock the Boys off their vehicles and pop their tires. They tried to climb onto the Rig, to part Dean from his precious car, but Dean could see in the rearview that Char and Garth had it under control, shoving them under the wheels. 

"They're taken care of," Sam called, leaning somewhat out the window. "Flamers on the way, though." 

"Jesus," Jo huffed. "Once we get out to the Bog, we can drop some charges. We just gotta outrun them until we get there." Dean nodded. 

"Good thinkin'," he agreed, and put the pedal on the floor, blaring the horn in a warning to Char and Garth to get down and stay down. The tires kicked sand up into the air, clouding it with musty smells. 

The entire time they rode, they managed to keep the Boys, and Gastown, a good distance off, just enough headstart to keep them out of harms way. The Rig drove over hills and dunes without hesitation, while some of Gastown's lesser drivers got bogged down in the deep sand, shouting and screaming in frustration. But Dean had been driving for years, and his hands were quick and deft; he knew just how to avoid the loose sand, how to keep his wheels from spinning out in the treacherous terrain. 

"Tell Char to get ready with those charges," he advised Jo. "Go through the Rig. Be careful." She nodded, and opened a trapdoor in the seat beside her, crawling through a narrow passageway that allowed goods or people to be smuggled in and out of hostile territories. The passageway would allow her to crawl through into the rig, where she could safely deliver a message to the pair hunkered down in the sniper's nest.

"Sammy, buckle up," Dean said, and Sam obeyed. 

"Watch it, Dean," he advised, but Dean just stepped on the gas, pushing the pedal to the floor where it locked into place. "What the hell are you doing?" He grinned, reaching up for the horn. 

"I'm gonna fang it."


	4. A Heap of Broken Images

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow   
> Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
> You cannot say, or guess, for you know only   
> A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,   
> And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,   
> And the dry stone no sound of water."
> 
> -"The Wasteland," T.S. Eliot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for minor character death, loss of a limb, and near death experiences.

**3 months ago**

Dag was sick. There were no two ways about it. She couldn't keep food down, couldn't stay up for very long, had to be helped from room to room by the other Wives. The only thing about her that hadn't yet gone, that showed no signs of deterioration, was her mind. It was still sharp, quick, able to keep up with her sons and the affairs of the state and the garden and every other responsibility she had as mother of the Imperator. She'd told Dean many times-"When my mind starts falling apart, _kiper,_ I'll be finished with my work here. You'll have to help me." He knew what she meant, knew what she was asking, but the reality was hard, terrifying, to face, and he couldn't imagine going through with what he'd been charged with, until the day he had to. 

**Present**

The last thing Dean wanted to see behind him was Garth's infernal ears popping up through the seat trapdoor. 

"Boss," he said, wriggling up to poke his head in between Dean and Sam. "We have a problem." Dean turned to glance at him. 

"Of course," he huffed. "Spill." 

"The charges won't set," the Boy informed him. "We tried to fix 'em, but they don't wanna detonate." 

"Fuck," Dean cursed, whipping the Rig around to wipe out a Flamer that's hiding in his blind spot. The trailer swings a wide arc, and Dean could see him vanish to the side, flamethrower and Boy tangled under the wheels with a sickening crunch that Dean's glad he can't hear. "They're pretty much paperweights now, huh?" 

"Pretty much," Garth confirmed. "We can try and get them stuck under the wheels, though. They've got a few barbs, they could bust some tires." Dean nodded. 

"Let's go for it," he agreed. "Good luck." Garth nodded.

"We'll need it," he concurred, before vanishing again under the seat to scramble back to the sniper's nest.

"Well, that was uplifting," Sam grumbled. "There's no way we can pull this off, Dean." 

"Hey," Dean corrected. "Don't be that way, Sammy. You remember the story mom used to tell, huh?" he asked, casual as he cut a turn around the back of a ridge of sand. "'We had nothing but the clothes on our backs and the War Rig,"' he said, imitating his mother's Australian accent, "'and we managed fine. Don't know how, but we did."'

"Yeah, but that's mom," Sam dismissed. "Mom had the Wives, and Furiosa, and Max. We're just us." Dean gave him a poisonous look. 

"Real sweet," he muttered, listening for explosions as he watched Char and Garth drop the charges off of the sniper's nest. As the charges fell, they got caught up underneath the wheels of the approaching cars, making them spark, the rubber of the tires catching fire easily and filling the air with the tangy singeing smell. 

"Yeah!" Dean shouted, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. "Fuck yeah!" He turned to Sam. "Fuck, yeah, Sammy!" He raised a hand for a high-five, grinning. 

"Dean, on your left," Sam warned, pointing. Dean turned just in time to see a car absolutely crawling with Boys pull right up alongside them, within spitting distance, jeering and flinging themselves-sometimes each other-at the Rig. 

"Gimme a gun," Dean demanded, holding out his hand to him. Sam hastily placed a gun in his hand, and Dean rolled down the window, both Winchester boys firing on their attackers. They were quickly running out of ammo, though, and whenever one of them was down another took his place, a neverending stream of them attempting to ambush the Rig. Those that made a jump on the trailer were frequently intercepted by the spikes coating the sides of the cargo container, spearing themselves on their sharp points and unforgiving sides, but if they could make it past those there was every chance they could take out Char and Garth-an eventuality Dean didn't even want to consider. Out of nowhere there was a hand reaching for him, through the window, the Boy at the end of it gnashing his teeth and growling furiously, lashing out wildly with his jagged nails. Dean raised his gun to his head, squeezing the trigger, but all he heard was a click that seemed altogether deafening. He tried again, nothing, shoving at the Boy, slamming the butt of his pistol against his bald head, but nothing could dissuade him, screeching and shouting in Dean's face.

Until he was still, lifeless but for a few flinches, a knife in his back. 

"Nice one," Dean sighed, catching his heaving breath as Jonabet, clinging to the side of the rig, pulled the slim blade from between the Boy's exposed ribs. 

"No problem," she nodded, shoving him from the cab, his body going under the wheels. "Don't relax yet, though. We still got a lot to contend with." 

"Definitely," Sam concurred, popping the back door open so she could climb in. "We haven't even dealt with Gastown, yet, and we've hardly put a dent in the Boys." 

"We can block some of 'em at the pass," Dean assured, "trigger a rockslide-" 

"Charges are down," Sam reminded. Dean huffed. 

"Right."

"And we need to stop for a refuel," Jo added. "Soon. Really soon." Dean nodded. 

"Oughta take five minutes or so?" 

"Less," Jo agreed. 

"Perfect. Hold onto your asses, then." He pivoted his foot on his heel, and slammed down onto a third pedal, marked simply with a little skull, and the whole Rig sped on, spitting sand and gravel and God knows what else that got trapped under its wheels. Dean, with a grin on his face, reached over to the radio and clicked it on, and the speakers mounted to the back of the Rig crackled before blaring the sounds of gritty guitar and heart pounding drums: " _Livin' eas-ay, lovin' free/ Got a ticket for a one-way ryy-de,"_ Dean practically shouted along, fond irritation plain on Sam's face. The song was whipped away by the wind, catching it up and pulling it as though it was a rope or a swirl of sand, flinging it to the four winds as the Rig powered through the desert, dragging along behind it a trail of cars and trucks and bikes which followed like a dark cloud. 

~~

Every time Jo reminded Dean of their urgent need for a fuel-up, he said the same thing—"A little further, then we'll do it." And every time they went a little further, Jo would remind him, and Dean would repeat: "Just a little further. Just to bulk up our head start." Sam and Jo rolled their eyes, Dean with his shades and his goofy grin despite the fact that they were relentlessly pursued by two entire war parties. Sam's head was leant against the window, watching the scenery, or lack thereof, pass them by.

"What's that?" he asked, tapping the window with one finger. Dean turned to look-trapped in a hanging cage was a human figure, her shoutings and wailings audible even through the panes of glass. 

"Looks like bait," the older Winchester replied. "Guys pull up over there, lookin' for a breeder or just to get some, and whoever got her stuck up there ambushes 'em. Then she goes right back up." 

"That's awful," Sam muttered. "We should go get her." Dean raised his brows. 

"You wanna end up another one 'a their sorry saps?" 

"Dean-" 

"Didn't think so. We gotta keep rollin'." 

"We already have a head start, Dean, we can go help her out and gain it back easy." 

"Sam, losin' this head start could lose us this fight altogether." 

"We got time, Dean," Jo piped in. "It'll be quick. She could be an extra gunner; she'd owe us." Dean sighed. 

"Hell, that's fine," Dean grumbled. "She'd better be a good shot, is all I can say." Sam's grin was a thousand watts. 

"It'll be good karma, I swear," he insisted. "I'll cut the rope, we'll let her down easy, and I'll bring her right back here." Dean huffed reluctantly and nodded. 

"Sure, whatever," Dean agreed. "Jo, go along, I'll keep the car idling. You two better be quick, I mean it."

"You got it, boss," Jo nodded, and slipped out with Sam as soon as the car slowed to a rolling stop. Dean couldn't hear what they were yelling back and forth, but he watched, looking between the rearview where he could see the approaching cars and bikes (no doubt wondering exactly what he was up to), in the far back, and the trio outside. Sam snapped the rope, and she started to scream as the crate fell, but Jo held it fast and brought her down easy. She was naked; Sam, ever the gentleman, whipped off his white shirt and dressed her in it, making her look like some kind of tan Lady Madonna as she ran across the slipping sand to the rig. 

Dean popped opened the passenger door, helping Sam in. The new girl clambered into the back, beside Jo, and took up space with her lithe, sand-swept body, as though asserting dominance.

"Thanks," Sam said, and Dean pulled away just as a group of men on roofless cars roared after them.

"Ah, yeah, that's what we needed," Dean sighed. "Another fucking war party chasing our ass all over the place." 

"What's your name?" Sam asked, ignoring his brother and looking over his shoulder at the woman. She shook his head. 

"Don't have one." 

"What language do you speak?" Dean asked. "Your native language?"

"Enochian," she replied. Dean hummed. 

"And how do you say 'karma' in Enochian?" She considered. 

"Jhessine." 

"Jhessine, it is," Dean nodded. "Jess for short, huh?" The girl-Jess now-nodded. 

"Jess is fine."

"Can you shoot a gun, Jess?" Jo asked. Jess scoffed. 

"Who can't out here?" Dean smirked. 

"Atta girl," he nodded, passing back a gun to her. "One man, one bullet. Back 'a the neck or the fore-" she cocked the gun, leant out the window, and fired with a crack, and in the rearview Dean saw one of the Boys drop, falling under the wheels of a bike and flipping it entirely. 

"Like that?" she asked, innocently. Dean grinned. 

"I like this girl, Sammy."

~~

Despite the surprise pit stop (which ended up lucky for all of them, frankly) it wasn't long before Dean could see the pass on the horizon-a solid wall of rock, tunnelled through with wind and blasting and the passage of time. They still held a sizeable lead on the other parties, enough to give them time to do what they needed to do and still come out ahead. 

"We get to the other side and blast it behind us," Sam told the girls in the backseat. "It takes about a half day to make it around, by the time they get around to us they'll be out of gas, out of food, exhausted." 

"But the charges are down," Jo said, "and unless they got them back up-" 

"We'll have to ditch the bomb," Dean shrugged, resigned. "We can detonate it once we make it out of the blast range, and we'll just have to make it in on the fuel in the reserve tanks." 

"If we choke out there, we'll be easy targets," Jess chipped in. "Can't we just haul it through?" 

"We don't have enough bullets for every one of those fuckers," Dean grumbled. "Let's just get into position, then we'll go from there." Sam leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. 

"Dean, there's someone up there." He pointed. "Look." Sure enough, silhouetted against the sky were two bikes, two figures, clearly visible up on the ridge. The elder Winchester huffed. 

"Can we just have one goddamn fiasco at a time?" he grumbled. "Whoever it is, we'll take care 'a 'em. That's what we're gonna do, and it's fucking final." Sam nodded, knowing not to press any further. Dean was already pressured and stressed as it stood; at a certain point, even for him, the excitement of the chase waned in favour of exhausted frustration. 

"We need all hands on deck if we wanna get out alive," Dean said. "Sammy, I'm gonna need you sittin' up here for me, ready to roll when I give the signal. Everyone else is gonna need to help us prep our little firecracker." Sam nodded, and slid over into his big brother's seat as Dean slid out, Jo following, Jess remaining behind. 

~~

As soon as the rig stopped, Dean could hear the motorcycles parked on the ridge roar to life. He watched them carefully, praying to the powers that were that they weren't circling their little outfit like vultures waiting for the death knell. He had his gun at the ready, though, not hesitating to fight back and protect his own while they worked on detaching the fuel pod and preparing it for detonation. As the two got close, Dean started to make out their features-knuckleless gloves on one of them, long whiskey coloured hair and goggles on the other-Dean's heart plummeted. Surely, they weren't the very same Road Warriors he'd just dealt with back at the Green Place.

Both men stepped off of their bikes, one of them in a long, abused coat, the other in a military jacket covered hem to neckline in pockets that jangled and clicked as he walked. 

"Well. Fancy meeting you here," the Warrior grumbled, arms crossed tightly. 

"I could say the same to you," Dean shot back. "We're just up here to set some charges so we can blow out the pass and trap the war parties on the other side, 'n hopefully catch some 'a them under the rocks too." 

"Do you guys have any charges?" Sam asked, polite, eyebrows furrowed in earnest naive charm. "Ours are down, we just need one or two..." 

"As it happens, we do," Gabriel nodded. "But what are you gonna give us in ret-" 

"We owe them," the Warrior interrupted simply. "Dean, you take your party through. We'll set the charges, detonate them, and follow behind." 

"And what exactly do you want from us?" Dean asked, eyes narrowed scrupulously. 

"Not a thing," the Warrior replied. "An escort would be appreciated, but it is by no means mandatory." Dean paused for a second, and looked to Sam, who nodded. 

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed. "We'll drive through, wait for you all. Try and blow the charges at the last second, hopefully some 'a the cars'll get caught in the rockslide." The Warrior nodded and turned back to his brother, the pair setting to work.

Dean turned to look out over the vast, flat horizon behind him, an expanse of sand punctuated by the occasional overturned car or rolling dune. Travelling in a cloud of smoke and dust, wrapped in a distorted haze, were the War Parties-Gastown, the Boys, the scavengers from whom they'd freed Jess-all getting ever closer.

"Charges are set," the Warrior called, over the growing din of engines and wheels.

"Got it," Dean nodded. "Sammy, come on, let's go." He opened the car door, climbing in, Sam mirroring him on the other side. They pulled away, under the arched pass, idling the car on the other side for a quick start. 

"Why would they do that?" Jo hissed, leaning up. "Put themselves in such a dangerous position like that? And for nothing in return?" Dean shrugged. 

"I'm not gonna look the gift horse in the mouth," he replied, Jess furrowing her brows. 

"Horse?" she repeated, Dean shaking his head, eyes on the rearview to monitor the actions of the Road Warriors. 

"Don't worry about it," he dismissed. "Just an expression." His foot was tapping nervously, eyes glued to the pass. The Warrior was on his bike, now, Gabriel kneeling at the charges ready to detonate them as soon as the first car got close enough. Dean could just make out the shape of it, one of his own, a open-air car with a roll cage on the top, and filled to the brim with Boys. 

"Come on," he murmured under his breath, "come on, just a little closer." Within seconds, the Boys were under the pass, the charges all detonating at once in an explosion of dust and rock and shouts, the Road Warriors pulling out of the cloud mere inches ahead of the very same Boys they tried to trap under the rockslide. 

“Drive, Dean!” Jo insisted, but Dean ignored her, slowing down. 

“We have to keep the Boys off their backs,” he replied, pushing the pedal down to the floor twice to lock it into place. “Sammy, take over the wheel. I’m gonna go give the two of ‘em a hand.” His brother nodded hastily, sliding over as Dean popped his door opened, sliding out of the cab and clinging to it’s sheer side, feet as wide as the ledge they were perched on. He inched towards the back, allowed a chance to catch his breath in the little gap between the cab and the rig itself, before bracing himself between the two metal surfaces as he made his way up. When he was a kid, he’d played for hours on that very contraption, the entire vehicle a playground for his childhood self. Now, though, the situation was vastly different-there was no longer anyone waiting nearby to catch him, and lives were at stake now, rather than just some fabricated risk. 

Dean looked up over the edge of the rig, spotting a hand reaching down to him, which led up to a t-shirt clad arm, red hair draping down over the figure’s shoulder. 

“Charlie,” Dean huffed, taking their hand. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” they nodded, hoisting Dean up, the pair of them walking back to the sniper’s nest. 

“You got a gun for me back here?” he asked, ducking down to dodge shots and harpoons. 

“Of course,” they smirked, handing him a long-ranged rifle. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Dean shimmied under the cover, picking off Boys. The Warriors were unable to pull away, serpentining, the Boys on them like the sun on the hot sand, bearing down on them as they drove. After Dean got off a few shots, he clambered out from the nest, standing right against the back of the rig, on the far side of the bomb. 

“Come on!” he called, reaching with everything he had, trying to grab the two brothers. They were just out of reach; even when Dean held onto the vehicle with one hand only, leaning out as far as he could manage. The Warrior, the nearest of the two, made to reach for his hand, but they couldn’t reach; the gap between their fingertips, though thin, felt like an insurmountable chasm, impossible to bridge. The Warrior had his hand squeezed around the handlebar, standing up on the footrests, gingerly stepping one foot further up on the well of the front wheel. 

Their fingers brushed-slipped. Brushed again-slipped, and Dean was transported back to earlier that day, up at the Green, when the situation was reversed-Dean the one who had fallen, the Warrior the one who had to raise him from the brink of death. Finally, _finally,_ Dean grabbed his hand, the apple of the young Imperator’s hand fitting easily into the hollow of the Warrior’s, and it might’ve been adrenaline but he swore he could’ve felt a spark between them, a crackle of heat, friction. He yanked him up, the bike losing control behind him, falling flat. Gabriel managed to dodge it, but the Boys had no such luck. The old motorcycle got caught up under the chassis of their ramshacked car, the metals sparking, the spark igniting with the guzzoline, the whole car bursting into a ball of flame that, even with no driver, kept right on towards the Rig. 

The Warrior extended his hand to his brother, Dean gripping his wrist on one side and the Rig on the other. 

“Just a little more, Gabriel,” he coaxed, both men reaching as much as they could. This time, their hands caught quickly, easily, but when the bike got left behind the long-haired Warrior lost his footing, and his legs scrambled in the air. Dean clung to the dark-haired man, ensuring that he wouldn’t be weighed down by Gabriel, left hand all entwined with a length of chain on the back of the rig. The more the Warrior moved, the more his hand ached, feeling almost split by the chain. Gabriel looked up at Cas, their eyes meeting, blue with gold amber, and finally, released his hand, falling onto the sand, consumed in mere moments by the fireball behind them. As he fell, he yanked his brother down, and Dean didn’t stop holding to him, his hand making a rending crack as his body fell, landing in the sand with a thud, the rig stopping on a dime as it heard the pained screams of the two men. 


	5. Harvester of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My voice; a beacon in the night.  
> My words will be your light,  
> to carry you to me."
> 
> -"Winter Song," Sara Bareilles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for marijuana use. Hover over the words in Enochian (with which I took a few liberties) for the translation!

**7 Years Ago**

“Furiosa?” Dean asked at dinner, sliding his cooked pears around his plate. 

“Yes, Dean?” Furiosa asked. 

“What, uh, what happened to your arm?” Furiosa paused. 

“Pride,” she answered finally. Dean furrowed his blond brows. 

“Pride?” She nodded. 

“Pride. And punishment. Joe was attempting to send a message, it seemed. Apparently I was too headstrong for his liking, I needed to be knocked down a peg...so he took my arm.” Dean nodded silently. 

“I guess he got what he had coming,” he muttered. 

“How do you mean?”

“He took your arm, you took his life,” the young boy replied with a shrug. “An eye for an eye, that’s what they say.” Furiosa hummed, and smiled softly. 

“That’s right, Dean. An eye for an eye.”

**Present**

The Warrior had to be dragged away from the fire, Garth and Jo hauling him away, the man squirming and screaming in anger in a language none of the others understood, until Jess came over to him, one hand on his shoulder, gentle and soft, her white shirt rippling in the wind. 

"Alre," she said, voice quiet but tone firm. His eyes lit up, turning to her, fire dancing in his eyes, and much to everyone’s surprise, hugged her tight. She set a hand on his back, holding him close. 

“Par esse a amayo, hm?" Jess murmured, and he nodded silently. "Niis adagita Dean.” He nodded, looking one more time over his shoulder, before going over to Dean’s side, kneeling next to him. Sam was already attending him, holding his crushed hand, Charlie and Jo bringing the younger Winchester boy bandages and rubbing alcohol. Dean, himself, was a little loopy, distant, the pain pulling him away from reality. When he saw the Warrior’s face hovering over him, eyes glazed, he raised his eyebrows, slowly, and reached up to his face with his good hand. 

“We’re gonna have to amputate,” Sam said, gently, knowing Dean was too far away to hear. “He doesn’t have any control of it. All the bones are crushed, the tendons are shredded.” Charlie nodded. 

“I’ll get a knife,” Jo offered, setting her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Are you going to do the honours?” He nodded.  


“It’ll be pretty far down,” he said. “Just at the wrist. I’ll try to make the incisions where he’s lost feeling.” The Warrior had Dean’s head on his knee, hands on either side of his sweat-prickled face. When Jo returned with the knife of choice-a curved, long blade-and handed it to Sam, both men cringed, the Warrior in sympathy and Dean in confused anxiousness. When the first cut was made, everyone gathered around and held their breath, and the whimper Dean made was no less than pitiful. 

~~

There was no time for any of them to wait around, even despite all that happened in recent moments. Sam had been handed the keys, Jess copiloting, while Dean rested in the backseat with the Warrior, Garth, Charlie and Jo. After such a shock, such a loss, they’d all wanted to be close, gathered together in the cab like so many lost children, like lost souls. 

Dean had not taken the loss very well. After the amputation, he’d woken momentarily, confused, hurting, scared, and had lashed out in anger when he’d found out what had been done while he was out. That hadn’t lasted long, however; almost as abruptly as he’d awoken, he was asleep again, and now he was heavily sedated with medicine, cradling his left arm to his chest. The drive was quiet, still, long-they drove from late afternoon to midnight, when the pitch black set in, and they needed bright headlights to see a mere foot in front of them. 

“We’re gonna set up shop out here for the night,” he said. “We’ll keep our lights out, apart from a candle or two, so we don’t get ambushed.” Garth nodded. 

“I’ll take the late shift for watch,” he offered. 

“I’ll go first,” Jo said. “Lookouts should sit up on top of the rig. And someone needs to stay with Dean-”

“I will,” the Warrior volunteered. “He and I will go up to the sniper nest.” Sam nodded. 

“That’ll put you out of the running for a lookout shift,” he warned, and the Warrior nodded. “You’ll need to be up all night.”

“I don’t mind,” he agreed. “I’ll bring him up there now.” Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“You can get him on your own?” The Warrior rolled his eyes, popping opened the door and scooping Dean up like he weighed no more than the rucksack still on his back. Everyone in the cab raised their brows, watching him carry Dean back to the sniper nest and lay him down. He seemed so peaceful, calm, still, when really he was made to be that way by the medicine Sam had been easing into his strained bloodstream. 

It was an hour before Dean was conscious again. He came to slow, eyes peeling opened like he’d been sleeping for years on end. It was pitch black; neither of them could see their hands in front of their faces. 

“Wha-what-” he mumbled, sitting up slowly. 

“Hello, Dean,” the Warrior greeted. 

“Who the hell are you, dude?” He sighed. 

“My name is Castiel,” he replied, hushed, like it was a big secret. “You saved my life. And you tried to save my brother, but in doing so, you lost your hand.” 

“Uh huh,” Dean nodded. “And we’re stopped out here ‘cause…?”

“It’s too dark,” he explained. “For driving. We’d need the lights, and those would draw attention.” Dean nodded. 

“Alright,” he agreed, propping himself up on the wall of the sniper den. “My stepmom lost her hand too,” he muttered, looking at the rounded end of his left arm. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“Funny,” Castiel repeated, with a dry smile. “What happened to her?”

“The old ruler cut it off,” he explained. “As punishment.”

“He was?”

“Immortan Joe.” Dean looked down. “My…uh, my dad.” Castiel whistled. 

“Well.” Which is when Dean did something strange—he laughed. 

“Fuckin’ tell me about it,” he agreed. “My mom was one ‘a the Wives. Her name was Dag. She was, uh, pretty great.” Castiel nodded. 

“I’m Enochian,” he said, out of nowhere. “I’m not a real Warrior. My mother, she was raped by raiders, and we were both banished. Some bikers took us in, and she had my brother and sisters by their leader before she killed herself.” Dean had an idea of what an Enochian was—their men were sterile, their women were ultra-chaste, they even spoke a religion-based language, known to many as ‘the language of angels.’ But this man was different, violent, capable, somewhat brash. A contrast to the silent, respectful Enochian ideal.

“That’s...I’m sorry. Must be a rough life, losing her like that, then your sisters, now your brother…” Castiel shrugged, seeming to lean closer. “I wish I could've done something more for Gabriel, Cas. By the time I knew what was going on..." He shook his head. 

"I don't blame you," he agreed. "You sacrificed a part of yourself for us. And I'm...grateful to you." He reached for his rucksack, rifling around. "How do you feel?" Dean looked at his arm, shaking his head a little. 

"It's weird. It's like I can still feel it. I can almost feel my fingers move, you know?" Castiel nodded. 

"Like phantom limb," he agreed. "Gabriel, he had a prosthetic. His leg. He shattered it when he was just a kid, they had to do a surgery. But it got infected, and he had to get rid of it before it spread." Dean scoffed softly. "What?" 

"Hardcore stuff for our first real conversation," he muttered. Castiel chuckled, the sound deep, warm, rich like the little apple hand pies Dean's mother used to make. He pulled a little bag filled with what looked like the moss that sometimes grew on wet spots on the Green and opened it, and a skunky earth smell filled the air.

"What's that?" Dean asked, raising a brow. Though back at home he had an expansive garden, they'd never grown anything like that before, only vegetables and fruits and grains, and a handful of medicinal herbs. 

"It's pot," Castiel replied. "You smoke it, rolled up in paper." He reached into another pocket of his rucksack and pulled out thin, square sheets of paper, no larger than the palm of Jess' small hand. "Would you mind?" 

"Not really," Dean shrugged. "What does it do?" Castiel smiled. 

"It makes you float," he answered simply. "Gabriel used it first. He used to have seizures, right after his injury, he couldn't sleep...so he took up using this. It needs a lot of water to grow, but we got it dried off of some traders." Dean nodded, watching Cas' capable, thin fingers roll up the little buds in paper, making a single long tube. He twisted the end up, then lit it, putting it between his chapped, pink lips and taking a drag. The smoke emanating from the end of it was greenish, trailing up and fanning out against the top of the lookout nest.

“I miss him,” he said, voice lower pitched and rough. “I...it happened so quickly, I can hardly believe...” Dean nodded. 

“I know what you mean,” he concurred, looking to his left arm. “Death’s tough. Always.” Going out on a limb, he said, “Uh, come over here. Just a little closer.” Cas rolled his eyes. 

“I’m afraid grieving isn’t exactly a turn-on for me, Mr. Imperator,” he said, moving close to Dean. “Would you like a turn?” He extended the joint to Dean, who leaned just barely away. 

“I needta stay alert,” he mumbled, looking down at Cas. His head was planted on Dean’s shoulder, chin notched in his neck, the joint in his hand smoking steadily. 

“Oh, now, come on,” Cas coaxed, eyes red but lit up with mischief. All the blues of the night sky were reflected in them, beautiful and luminescent and stunning. “Have a little fun, Imperator.”

“I thought grieving didn’t turn you on?” Dean asked, taking the joint from his fingers and investigating it. 

"It doesn't," Cas said with a slow smile. "But this-" he pointed to the joint, "-does, so I think it's right about time we level the playing field." Dean looked down from his high perch in the lookout nest, and saw Jo and Charlie lying together, looking at the stars, just feet away on top of the rig, talking and clinging to each other. There was, after all, nothing like a death to remind everyone of the fragility of life out on the sands. Sam and Jess, too, seemed to have paired off, leaning easily against the side of the rig close and companionable, while Garth slept in the cab in preparation for his late lookout shift. There were plenty of people to take care of him if he took a moment to relax with Cas, he justified, and started to move his left arm to take the joint from him before stopping himself, a brief melancholy coming over him, and taking it with the right hand.

"Fine," he agreed. Cas set a hand on his chest.

"I knew you would," he purred. "Nice and easy, in between your lips. Inhale and hold it, okay?" Dean nodded, and raised the joint to his lips, taking a long drag, holding the smoke in his mouth. He could already feel his body relax, become almost weightless, easing into the effects of the drug. 

"Ah," he sighed. "That _is_ nice. I feel all...I dunno, airy." Cas smiled. 

"That's what it's for," he agreed. 

"So your brother used it for seizures, and you?" Cas shrugged. 

"It let me forget," he sighed. "It just let me...live. Like nothing was wrong." He chuckled. "Always makes me thirsty, though." 

"I can help you there. Down at the bottom of the rig, there's a little spigot. Turn the handle twice, right, and you'll get all the water you can drink." Cas smiled. 

"Thanks," he agreed. "I'll be back. Don't let that go out." Dean shook his head, looking listlessly at the joint in his hand.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Hurry back." He took another inhale of the strange greenish plant, his eyelids drooping, no longer feeling part of himself. It was as though he could see his body from somewhere overhead-his hair dishevelled, the sleeve of his jacket tied off just after his left arm ended, concealing the sight of the end of his arm, slightly rounded off where his hand had been. Within moments, it seemed, Cas was back, and they were together again under a sky full of stars. 

“Cas?”

“Uh huh?”

“We’re good now, right?” Cas smiled. 

“We’re good,” he agreed. 

“Would you consider...sticking around for a little? When we go back to the Green Place? I’ll get you set up with a new bike, you can have a roof over your head…” Cas hummed. 

“Can’t exactly say no, huh?” he asked, taking the joint from Dean and taking a drag. 

“Guess not,” Dean concurred with a little chuckle. “But, it’s up to you how long you stay. I’m not in the business of forcing anyone into anything.” Cas nodded, and set his heavy head on Dean’s shoulder, made more affectionate by their time together and by the smoke in his lungs, in the air. 

“I’d love to stay with you, Dean. I’d be more than happy to.” Dean smiled, and for a moment it all seemed worth it. 

“Good,” he murmured, and took a risk, pressing a soft, tender kiss to Cas’ lips. Cas grinned against his mouth, licking at his closed lips, Dean yielding to him almost instantly. Dean’s hand skimmed his back, his other arm moving to pull him in without even thinking about it. Their bodies were warm; for the blistering heat of the days, the nights were cool, but Cas was solid in Dean’s arms, and comfortable coziness spread from his insides out. 

“Dean?” Cas breathed, hand grazing his cheek. 

“Yeah, Cas?” 

“No matter what happens tomorrow…I want to thank you for everything you did for Gabriel and I. I know I wasn’t all that kind to you. And if one of us doesn’t come back after tomorrow…” Dean shook his head. 

“Cas, there’s no reason to talk that way. We’re both gonna come out on the other side of this, just fine. I promise you.” 

“That’s what I thought before Gabriel died,” Cas replied softly. Instead of responding aloud, Dean drew Cas close to his side, holding him, nuzzling his dark hair.

“You can’t always foresee everything,” he murmured. “But I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure you’re safe, and that you get through this.” He kissed him again. “You wanna stay up together?” Cas shook his head. 

“Rest,” he breathed, looking at Dean’s eyes, emerald green against the vast sky that wrapped around them, a dark blanket that swaddled their lone bodies. “You’ve had a big day. We need to get an early start in the morning.” Dean sighed and nodded, pressing up to Cas. 

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” he sighed, eyes heavy lidded. Cas took the last drag from the joint, pinching out the cherry and setting it aside. 

“I won’t,” he assured, brushing his fingers through his hair. Dean closed his eyes, but he couldn’t get comfortable; the more he tossed and turned, the more he willed himself to rest, the less easily sleep came. After a few minutes, Cas seemed to realize, sighing. 

“Can’t sleep?” Dean shook his head. 

“Nuh uh.” 

“When I was a young boy, my mother used to sing us [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qWJPglDkB0), from before. It always put me out with no trouble, if you’d like…”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Dean agreed. Cas smiled softly, and opened his mouth, a soft tune falling from his lips-- _“Home is where I want to be, Pick me up and turn me around. I feel numb, born with a weak heart, I guess I must be having fun…”_ As Cas sang, Dean melted further and further into his body, into the nest of coats and blankets tucked around the sniper’s nest. He could hear the voices of the others fade as they clambered into the truck, Sam and Jess tucking themselves in the cab, Garth, Jo, and Charlie all piling into the storage trailer, their voices ringing hollow off of all the metal. Dean’s last thoughts before he drifted off were of nothing beyond Cas’ hands in his hair, the sounds of the people that made up his small, strange world around him. 

_“Home, is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there. I come home, he lifted up his wings  
I guess that this must be the place…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. Timestamps will be coming out periodically, and the rest will be published fairly soon as well. For regular updates to your email, I'd suggest subscribing! Also, the version Ao3 shows hardly does the art justice; you can find a much more HD version [right here!](http://introspectivewingtips.tumblr.com/post/133981887548/lilacs-out-of-dead-land)


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